


Sweet and Low

by beadedslipper



Category: Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: Crack-ish?, Fluff, Harold has had enough of this shit, John Reese is a sass master, M/M, Romance, Sort of? - Freeform, Voice Kink, at least that's how all this started
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-01
Updated: 2016-05-01
Packaged: 2018-06-05 17:43:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6714655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beadedslipper/pseuds/beadedslipper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Reese's voice could charm blood from a stone - if only he could stop being so damn sarcastic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sweet and Low

**Author's Note:**

> This was born out of my enduring love for the "Reese" voice as I heard JC refer to it in an interview. It went places from there
> 
> Shoutout to managerie76 for being awesome and helping me find examples of John being NYC's greatest master of sass

John Reese had a very particular set of skills.  A very particular set of skills that combined to make him lethal in the extreme.  It was this very specific set of skills for which Harold Finch chose to recruit him.

He was capable and intelligent, well-versed in all types of armed and unarmed combat, tactics and reconnaissance, surveillance, and disposal.  He was multilingual and, thanks to extensive travel, more cultured than most.

He was also attractive.  His – form – was pleasing and therefore as useful and as dangerous as anything else about him.

John was aware of this.  He’d been trained to use his looks, his physicality, even the way he used his eyes, as a sort of siren song to his prey.

However, one of his most underestimated weapons was, of all things, his voice.

Harold was painfully – sometimes awkwardly – aware of this fact, being the one who heard John’s speak more often than anyone else, even when they weren’t in the same room.

The husky quality that he seemed to enhance or downplay completely on a whim had created a soporific effect on more than one number by Harold’s admittedly excellent estimation.  Added to the low, deep resonance that came from his large, powerful frame, and John’s voice was as deadly as any poison.  When John said his name in that low rasp, _Harold_ , it had created a learned response that made Harold grateful he spent most of his time sitting under a desk.  John’s voice could have gotten them out of more than one tough situation – if only John knew when to quit when he was ahead.

The first time, very early on in their relationship, that Harold heard John back-sass the unhinged perp – a dirty cop no less – holding a gun on him, he had to check the feed to make sure he’d heard right.

_“You’re not law enforcement.  Cartel finally grow some stones, send somebody to take care of us?  Who the hell are you?”_

_“…Concerned third party?”_

Harold’s information on John was extensive.  Indeed, by most people’s estimation, it was invasive and it created an unfair imbalance in their relationship since Harold was loathe to share any information about himself in return.  But the one thing John’s files, army or CIA, didn’t mention was that he was sarcastic to the point of recklessness.  For example, alone and without resources, in an addict-infested apartment complex.

_“Hello fellas, can I borrow some of your drugs?”_

Harold had never felt the urge to facepalm so strongly before in his life – including his college years with Nathan - but a few moments, several loud grunts, and a few concerning crashes later –

_“Thank you.”_

Even when a bomb was strapped to his chest and they both were seconds away from dying, John couldn’t seem to help himself from making a sarcastic little quip.  At least he apologized at Harold’s scandalized look.

_5876 – a beep – desperation…_

_“I take it that one didn’t do it – sorry.”_

After that they somehow made it through several numbers before John’s mouth got him in trouble again.  Maybe the machine was trying to decrease Harold’s stress levels.  Unfortunately, nothing lasts forever.

Over the comms Harold heard something to the effect of: “Well today must be my lucky day.”, the sound of two bullets being violently expelled from their containers, and then static, silence.

Twenty minutes later John, once again, staggered into the library, pressing a hand to the bullet wound that marred the meaty section just below his left clavicle.  It seeped blood sluggishly, contributing to the already extensive stain spreading through his jacket.  John was dirty and sweaty, a byproduct both of the summer heat trapped in the tall New York City walls and of getting shot and shoved in the dirt.

Harold was already waiting, a cart full of needles, sutures, peroxide, and various medical accoutrements next to his hip.  His lips were pursed with disapproval and, his expression brooking no argument, he pushed John into his vacant computer chair.

Reese had already shrugged off his suit jacket and was unbuttoning the top few buttons of his – ruined – dress shirt to allow Harold access to the wound.  Oh well, at least they kept Harold’s tailor in business.

With detached efficiency, Harold began to clean the wound, not looking at Reese and not speaking.

John sighed.  “At least I got James Macenroe before he could kill his sister.”

“Not giving me a lot of confidence in your skills here Reese.”  Shaw, passing through from nowhere with a truly enormous hoagie in hand, looked unperturbed by John’s flat look.  She kept walking, probably to disappear back to the alternate dimension where she stayed when she wasn’t terrifying the townspeople or spoiling Bear.

“Mr. Reese,” Harold began, a vein twitching over his left temple, “I believe some of these encounters could be resolved with less bloodshed, particularly on your part, if you could simply keep from antagonizing the men with guns.”

Reese, even through a pained grimace, managed to look unapologetic.  “I don’t know what you want me to say Finch.”

“That you will stop being such an unrepentant ass while your life is on the line would be a good start.”

“Where would be the fun in that?”

Harold felt only minimal guilt for stabbing the needle with slightly more enthusiasm than necessary on the next stitch.

John winced.  “You did that on purpose.”

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean Mr. Reese.” Finch replied primly.  With a few more efficient strokes, he was getting entirely too good at this, Finch closed the wound.  He covered it with a bandage, gently this time, and taped the edges.

Then he stepped back and made to turn to his computers, only a hand caught his arm by the wrist and stopped him.

John was looking up at him, blue eyes twinkling.

“Were you worried about me Harold?”

John’s voice had dropped a register, like it was wont to do when he was trying to get access to somewhere he wasn’t allowed.  Harold narrowed his eyes, sensing a trap.

John’s eyes only sparkled brighter and he hummed, lower and raspier than before.

Harold sighed, pinching his nose with the hand that wasn’t currently braceleted by John’s fingers.  “Mr. Reese, that is an extremely insensitive question.”

John blinked, some of the mirth leaving his face as he grew concerned he had somehow offended Harold.

“I have told you on more than one occasion how much I value my privacy and yet I have allowed you, more than I have ever allowed anyone, to know me.  I trust you.  You are – my friend.” Harold took a breath, not looking at John.  “Of course I was worried about you.  It has become a regular occurrence.”

John didn’t reply and, after a few long moments, Harold tried to twist out of his hold but John’s fingers immediately tightened, trapping Finch in place.

Finch didn’t turn around until he felt gentle lips brush the center of his palm.  Then he looked at John, shocked to see the most tender and hopeful expression he could have imagined on the man.

“Mr. Reese?”

John pulled Harold one step closer, this time pressing his kiss into the dip of Harold’s elbow.  “What would you say if I told you that the feeling’s mutual?  That I care about you.  That I worry about you?  That you’re a far better friend than I deserve.”

Harold made a small sound of protest at the slightly hopeless tone in John’s voice, but John didn’t let him interrupt.  His voice had dropped to that devastating near-whisper.  “What would you say if I told you that, in my opinion, friend is a bit of an understatement?”

Harold shivered, his mind reeling.

Mr. Reese – “ John frowned.  “John.” Harold amended.  “Why didn’t you say anything?”

“Probably for very similar reasons to yours.”

Harold considered, allowing that this was the case.  However, now that it was clear that they both were on the same page, so to speak –  “I would very much appreciate it if you would kiss me now.”

The words were hardly out of Harold’s mouth before John was catching them with his own.  He scooted the chair forward so that Harold was standing between his spread legs.  John suddenly grew in height and Harold distantly realized he was adjusting the height of the chair so that Harold wouldn’t have to bend his neck at an untenable angle.

A gentle wave of love and affection washed over Harold, John’s quiet consideration almost more than he could bear on top of all the other emotions swarming him at the moment.

They separated eventually, Harold’s lips slightly reddened by the stubble that John never really seemed to lose.  They were both dazed, their breath a little short, and ecstatic.

A pleased smirk worked its way onto John’s lips.

Harold made choices empirically, based on the data he gathered both from observation and experimentation.  He had observed Mr. Reese extensively, both before the beginning of their acquaintance and, in even more detail, in the months following. 

He knew that John was about to say something insufferably smug, the kind of something that, even when said in that low rasp of his, tended to get him shot while on assignment.

Based on this conclusion, Finch was forced to execute the only preventative measure available to him, John’s devastating voice notwithstanding.

He kissed John again.


End file.
